


Tradition

by OrchidScript



Series: Homefront (1940s AU) [1]
Category: Shades of Magic - V. E. Schwab
Genre: A spoonful of sugar helps the angst go down, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Found Family, Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28193361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrchidScript/pseuds/OrchidScript
Summary: “I want to show you something.”Holland placed his fingers on his father’s outstretched palm, rough with callouses. He followed it forward to the kitchen table. His mother stood at the stove tending to the soup that would be dinner. A small pile of golden, fried potatoes sat near her on the counter. The wood stove threw off sweltering heat and the winter dark crept in through the windows from the outside. Alox had already taken a seat, swinging his legs and humming tunelessly.“That’s right, Lanya,” his father said, sitting down then lifting the little boy into his lap. Holland kept quiet, as he usually did, and leaned back against his father’s chest. “You were too young last year to remember this."A 1940s AU one shot.
Series: Homefront (1940s AU) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2143779
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	Tradition

**Author's Note:**

> This scene has been taking up real estate in my brain since August, when the 1940s AU came together. I tried to mush as much of canon as I possibly could with the original story and real-world stuff. I hope it worked out well, truly. Anyhow, it’s now finally out of my brain and for y’all to read. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> If you'd like to read the original 1940s AU stories, you kind find them here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25635280/chapters/62229718

“I want to show you something.”

Holland placed his fingers on his father’s outstretched palm, rough with callouses. He followed it forward to the kitchen table. His mother stood at the stove tending to the soup that would be dinner. A small pile of golden, fried potatoes sat near her on the counter. The wood stove threw off sweltering heat and the winter dark crept in through the windows from the outside. Alox had already taken a seat, swinging his legs and humming tunelessly.

“That’s right, Lanya,” his father said, sitting down then lifting the little boy into his lap. Holland kept quiet, as he usually did, and leaned back against his father’s chest. “You were too young last year to remember this. —”

“That’s ‘cause he’s too much of a baby.”

“Quiet, Aloishka.”

His father tilted his head one way, then the other. His rough fingers came to Holland’s chin, tilting it up so he could see his father’s face. Dark hair run through with white, a full beard looking very much the same, an exhausted half smile, and glittering green eyes set above prominent cheekbones. People said Holland would look like him someday, when he was older. His mother’s friends said a lot of things to him without asking; he never remembered them all.

“You were too young last year, but I will show you now. I want you to pay attention, Lanya, because you’ll do this for your own children, God willing.”

Holland nodded, then asked in a small voice. “What is it?”

His father flashed a bright smile. There and gone in only a few second. “Flaming tea. Now, watch.”

Everything was more magical in winter, Holland thought. The frost tracing circles and swirls across the windows at dawn. The way snow weighing heavy on tree limbs, spreading thin across the ice on the river. The sparking crackle of the wood stove fire. The stories his mother tucked him into bed with — Morozko, Vasilissa and her little doll, the swan princes, and the Someday King. And, better yet, candles in the dark and shadow puppets made with hands.

Holland watched his father’s hands, sleepy but entranced. By the light of the candles on the menorah, his father poured a steaming cup of tea and a bit of something strong smelling into the saucer. A sugar cube appeared with the turn of his wrist, out of the air as far as Holland was concerned. The sugar was put in the saucer, set to soak up the clear liquid, then picked up with a spoon.

A match appeared and was struck. The sugar was lit, turning into a vivid blue flame.

Holland gasped and sat up. Alox did too, so he didn’t feel so silly for it. His eyes flickered up to where his mother was; she had turned around to watch and smiled warmly at the wonder on his small face.

“A small light in dark,” his father whispered, holding the spoon over the cup. “A little sweetness for a long winter. _On vis och._ ”

Then, all at once, his father tilted the spoon and the flame went out.

He gasped again, watching his father stir the tea. He looked to his mother, his older brother, his father in turn, the same surprised look.

“What is it, Holland?” His mother asked gently.

“It… it’s gone,” he answered sadly.

“That’s how it goes, Lanya. Now, we all take a drink. When you’re older, we will all have our own cups.” his father said, taking a drink from the cup. He held it to Holland’s lips. “Go on.”

Holland leaned forward, letting his mouth fill up. Sweet and sharp, the smell of the sugar fire now tasted. He held it in his mouth for a moment, lips pursed and cheeks full before swallowing. The cup passed to Alox, then his mother. His father set it before the menorah when it was empty, picking up the saucer and holding it out.

“For you, Vera.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. We have plenty.”

His mother stepped forward, taking the saucer in her smaller hands. Much smaller and thinner than his father’s, Holland thought. Not delicate, only small. She pressed the curved rim to her lower lip and drank, wincing as she swallowed. She placed it on the table. “ _On vis och_ , Mishunia.”

“ _On vis och_ , Vera Ivanovna.”

~*~*~*~

Talya had extinguished the candles almost as soon as they had been lit. Sitting cross-legged on their bed, Holland had watched sadly as six smoke tendrils curled into the air from the candle wicks. She had taken the curtains down to cut and stitch into dresses, pajamas, a rag doll for the little girl now asleep behind him. Paris was watched on all sides now, and with Talya now a member of the resistance, the two of them couldn’t be too careful.

Well, three of them, Holland supposed. He hadn’t exactly warmed up to the idea of a child in their apartment, but Talya adored her, doted on her endlessly. Holland Vosijk was good at many things, but saying _no_ to Talya was not one of them.

The candles couldn’t stay lit. Talya’s orders.

But that wasn’t the only tradition left.

Exhaustion weighing heavily on his limbs, Holland pushed himself to standing and padded over to their small kitchen. A spit of poorly cut tile, a stove and oven, a small pantry. He reached for the kettle, filling it up, then lit the stove. He could feel Talya’s golden-green eyes on him as he searched for the tea, the sugar, a spoon, a match. It warmed his blood more than he would have liked to admit. With a child now in the house, sleeping pressed to Talya’s side, it had been weeks since he’d gotten to really touch her.

_Wouldn’t your mother be ashamed of you now_ , Holland chided himself as he plucked a thin-walled teacup from the shelf. _Thinking about sex on a holiday…_

Talya had seen this ceremony before, had watched him do it year after year. She had watched him with gentle fascination, even after turning her nose up at his preference for sour cream, his confusion at fried chicken and couscous, his shock at how liberally she used their sugar and honey and syrup.

“Untwist your face, Holland,” she had chided him. “This is what my mother did and I don’t intend to let anyone stop me from doing what she would have.”

That had been the first year they had spent together. This was their fourth. They had moved twice, changed jobs too many times to count, adopted a cat that promptly ran away, taken a little girl who had become his shadow.

And there was a war.

A war the two of them had become very good at hiding from.

They couldn’t hide from it anymore.

“What is it, Holl?” Talya asked quietly from the bed. She knew what he was doing, but knew there was more underneath it.

He pressed the tip of his tongue to the roof of his mouth. The kettle whistled. Hot water was poured over the tea. A small bottle of apple brandy was found.

“Holland?”

He turned to her with a faint smile. “Do you want to wake her for this? Or should she sleep?”

Talya thought for a moment, casting a glance at the little girl. Nasi, cornsilk blonde and bundled in one of Talya’s robes, slept curled like a cat. She sucked her thumb in her sleep, sometimes squirmed and kicked him in the side. Talya said it was sleep. Holland didn’t get enough sleep as it was.

After a moment, Talya pulled Nasi into her arms and stood. Nasi wriggled and sniffed, not quite awake. She blinked blearily at Holland, her brown eyes dark and haunted in the low light of the apartment. The focused on him as he quietly ran through the motions, mixing sugar and brandy on the spoon, pouring the tea into a nice cup. He lifted the spoon in front of their faces as he struck the match at set it burning.

Nasi seemed to wake up more at the sight, pressing back into Talya’s chest with wide eyes.

Holland let it burn, marveling at the flickering blue, before dropping the spoon in the tea and stirring. He lifted the cup to Talya’s lips, letting her drink, then did the same for Nasi. She stared at it, then dipped a finger in, sucking it clean.

Holland nodded, then took a drink himself. “A little sweetness, when the world is on fire.”

“I have all the sweetness I need,” Talya said quietly. She kissed Nasi on the top of the head, then rested her hand on Holland’s face. “Right here, both of you.”

~*~*~*~

“Come here, Natalya,” Holland whispered, holding out his hand to the small girl. “I want to show you something.”

Nasi didn’t need telling twice. She had always liked him, even when he could have been better to her. Looking at her now, he regretted every moment he had not been. According to her forged papers, she had been five years old for a month now. Holland could feel time pressing in on him, the need to make up for every second he had wasted, lost, been robbed of.

She was his only family now. This bird-boned little girl with blonde braids and old eyes; who hung on his every word and believed him to be a better man than he really was.

She came to rest at his feet with a hop. The neighborhood children had already taught her a few games, one of which involved hopping around on one foot. She had been doing it everywhere ever since.

“Show me what?” Nasi asked, head tilted to the side.

“Come here,” Holland said, lifting her onto his lap. He had Talya’s photo resting against the menorah. Her menorah, decades old and taken out of Paris in the bottom of Talya’s hat case. The hat had been left behind. This way, if he broke, at least he could hide it. “I want to show you something, something I learned when I was your age… Watch.”

“Yes, papa.”

Holland held her close to his chest as he dipped a sugar cube into a little brandy, given by one of the neighbors. A lighter flickered to life in his hand and he carefully ignited the sugar, holding the spoon over the tea cup.

“A small light in the dark, a little sweetness in a cold world,” Holland whispered to her hair. He dipped the spoon into the fragrant tea and stirred, feeling a twinge of disappointment in his chest as the fire went out.

“Now take a drink, Natasha.” He held the cup to her small hands. She took several, then set the cup back down for him. “When you’re old enough, I’ll give you your own cup.” Nasi hummed something and Holland felt a lump forming in his throat at Talya’s photograph. He pressed on: “Say this after me, just like this. _On, vis, och_.”

Nasi nodded and slowly repeated: “ _On vis och_.”

“Very good. Thank you, Nasi.”

Holland took a long drink of tea and stifled the strained tone in his voice. His heart squeezed and he looked away. The menorah burned brightly, four fresh candles dripping new wax onto its metal frame. Talya smiled back at them from 1939. As much as it hurt him to look, he couldn’t bring himself to put the photograph away. Their new apartment, cramped and blank-walled, felt more like home with her there.

The war was over. They had escaped Paris. Nasi was now his daughter on paper. Talya was a year and a half dead.

“ _On vis och,_ Tal,” he whispered weakly to the floor.

Nasi craned her head to look back at him. “What does that mean?”

Holland quickly swallowed his sadness. “Have I never told you?”

Nasi shook her head.

“Oh, well then… It means a lot of things, but my mother always said it meant a fresh start, a good end… We said it on all important days.”

“Did I say it right?”

“Yes, Natasha. You did.”


End file.
